


linger (right now, you are here)

by mysticTwirl



Series: darling, you're a poet (you don't even know it) [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Poetic Sex, Porn with Feelings, Snippets, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27349828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticTwirl/pseuds/mysticTwirl
Summary: Bokuto handles him like he could bruise, nervous fingers can't decide where to wander. His knees tremble, Akaashi has to arch towards him just to feel the stretch of his palm. Tell him, it's alright, please continue.There is nothing more he desires than to be taken wholly by this man.In which, intimacy is a foreign language and touch is a lifelong lesson. Or a continuous series of different moments throughout their courtship, each chapter is a stand-alone.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: darling, you're a poet (you don't even know it) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821622
Comments: 52
Kudos: 405
Collections: NSFW BokuAka Week 2020





	1. let it be known

**Author's Note:**

  * For [protagonists](https://archiveofourown.org/users/protagonists/gifts).



> top Akaashi, lots of feelings
> 
> Short companion to my fic, [tiptoes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25482535).

He comes with him to the Jackals' afterparty, not as his plus one, just a friend. Media still hounds events like vultures, safe spaces are a myth.

But still, he keeps him close, hands linger when he passes him drinks, an arm too tight under the guise of drunkenness. Neither consume too much that night, both know that the celebration starts after.

They dance as a group, where they are shielded by similar bodies, where every bump is never deliberate; at least to the outside eye. Akaashi sees Meian pull his wife close, Barnes chats up another lady, and he thinks, how hollowing it is to be known as a best friend.

But still he dances, drinks, and lets himself be merry. In another life, they would have been separated by circumstance, in this life, they're allowed to coexist. Close, but never close enough. Regardless of the time, his wishes are always greedy.

If historians were to unearth their texts after their passing, see the love letters they've kept through their courtship, they'd call them roommates at best. And at worst, pitiful bachelors, an ever mystery as to why they remained single.

So Akaashi is grateful really, that no one asks why he's always invited to these events, why people have stopped demanding drunken kisses from either of them. It's the team's worst kept secret, if this were history, they'd be less gentle with their sympathies.

Love, he whispers, only because the music is loud, and not a soul could possibly overhear. Akaashi leans in, there's an undercurrent in his skin, it sparks across his muscles as a skittering yearning.

Bokuto recognizes that gaze, it's all he's been waiting for. His skin feels too tight on his body, the party suddenly becoming too high strung. If anyone notices them leave, it doesn't make the papers.

There's a ghost of fingertips down his spine as they make their way through the streets, Bokuto traces indecipherable love notes as they search. Akaashi does not know if this is to console, but the repetitive motions leave a tremble in its wake.

They don't waste unnecessary time choosing; when moments are scarce, comfort is rarely a priority. Staff members are trained not to ask, Bokuto keeps his head down, they pay in cash.

The bed dips with Akaashi's weight, Bokuto curves his hand around the expanse of his shoulder. Then he squeezes, and drags his hand across stumbles of skin, hidden moles and creases, to cup the back of his neck.

Bokuto can hear the noises he makes when he touches the right spots; his fingers branch out through dark hair to nestle his partner's crown. Akaashi uncovers his boxers and takes all of him in.

Akaashi licks and strokes with intention, Bokuto does not recognize the pleading in his own voice. There's an aching, a tremble, and a dignity to seeing your partner come undone.

He takes him from behind, in long and slow drags, Bokuto mouths praises that have yet to escape him prior. A deep sense of warmth twists something inside of him, Akaashi touches him with a little more force.

Then, Bokuto runs out of words, just says his name, once, twice, and again, as Akaashi pushes further inside of him. Good, he privately concludes, in bed, eloquence should only be found in the deed itself.

Once, when he was younger and struggling through his words, his professor had looked at him with pity. This just won’t do, she tells him, you say both too much, yet not enough. Who do you write for, is what she doesn't ask, instead she says,

_You could create sad prose from this._

This. She couldn't possibly fathom what this is. In bitter resentment, Akaashi recognizes that everything he writes will inevitably be associated with a faceless woman. It's not unrequited love, he doesn't tell her, nothing can be further from the truth.

There's no rhythm to how often the bed posts hit the wall. Akaashi pins both his arms with one hand and holds his hips with the other; Bokuto secretly hopes they bruise. He can feel the tension slowly unspool from behind him, a pulsing swell from the tenuous space in between.

Akaashi feels the heat uncoil from his entirety, it completely sweeps through him, warm and unending. Bokuto calls his name, may even say I love you, and he holds him closer in return; this is his response.

If he were to die in his arms, would historians glorify the depths of their friendship?

Later, through aftercare and pillow talk, Akaashi sits next to the window and begs his thoughts to be quiet. Daylight will be coming soon, and with this, separation, until circumstance calls for them to reunite.

Your love is too loud, is what they never tell him. Because Akaashi has been nursing this torch for almost half his life, yet he quells the flames just enough so that modern sceptics can pretend not to see.

At most, he'd be called his companion, maybe even a partner. People will decipher his writings and pass judgement; they'll deem them unworthy of museums, let his words be lost to the void.

But let it be known that they were all about him. Every single one.

Bokuto approaches, leans from behind to wrap his arms around his heart, to breathe against the curve of his neck. Later, they depart, but in this life, small mercies grant that it's never the last time.

What are you thinking about, he asks.

Nothing, he answers. Everything.


	2. the first time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some awkwardly beautiful b*d s*x for the heart. they're young and figuring it out. Bokuto tops.

Their first time is, objectively, bad.

He approaches him with a gentleness, acumen in his eyes that spell reassurance, they agree to go slow. And with that, his tongue, eager against his skin, draws a line down his navel, smooth and confident, until his gaze flickers upwards.

When their eyes meet, Akaashi only reads tenderness, it nearly takes his breath away. Bokuto, like the sun, leading his team with athletic prowess and undeniable poise. Bokuto, now, careful and deliberate, touches him like glass.

There is nothing more he desires than to be taken wholly by this man.

Bokuto handles him like he could bruise, nervous fingers can't decide where to wander. His knees tremble, Akaashi has to arch towards him just to feel the stretch of his palm. Tell him, it's alright, please continue.

Then, his fingers are inside of him, slick and inquisitive. Bokuto kisses his inner corners, and then the tip, and his tongue rolls beneath. He mumbles questions against his thighs.

_is this okay?_

_are you feeling alright?_

_should we continue?_

And Akaashi answers, yes, yes, and yes. Because a mixture of arousal and consent outweighs the looming sense of hesitation and unease. And should either come back, Bokuto is sure to pause and reach for his pulse.

He doesn't find the right places immediately; inexperience is a foil to their paragon of a first time. Akaashi does not fault him, the intricacies of touch are a foreign language to them both. So, at times, there's a stray graze of teeth, limbs tumble and misconnect, apologies are exchanged.

But there's also laughter. So much laughter that cuts through the tension, allows them to pause, and breathe, and remember that there's no proper way to speak intimacy. Akaashi kisses him through giggles, their teeth knock uncomfortably.

Then, Bokuto is holding him close, rocking inside of him, whispering affections and promises. Akaashi's eyes roll up to take in the sensation, to fully comprehend into his realm of understanding- this man and I are one.

They don't find the right spot, neither of them particularly sees stars, but their hands remain clasped as they moan and grind against the other. The pleasure builds up steadily, warm and soft, not distinctly explosive.

Bokuto bites his ear, he winces, and an apology comes soon. He tries to sprout reassurance but all that tumbles is _i love you. i love you. i love you_. Until it's the only thing they can say, a mantra they chant as Bokuto presses into him harder, until they're both out of breath.

Heat finds its way to Akaashi, and then relief, it's comedically abrupt, but the sensation lingers even after he reaches for a damp towel. Bokuto's cheeks are red, his form picturesque against the moonlight, but his face carries an innocence.

Keiji, he says his name, with a tone akin to a childish plea, miles away from the grown-up deed they have just committed. He looks for reassurance, so earnest in his pursuit, Akaashi is fully enamored.

So, his hands are gentle as he cups his jaw, their press of lips is tender, almost as shy as their first. Akaashi flushes against him, they embrace, skin to skin. They've been bare this whole time, but now that the adrenaline has passed, he fully feels naked under his gaze.

So, he says, I am sorry for loving you too loudly.

In reference to the ungraceful noises that have escaped him, the times he was too eager to please. A reminder of every stumble, the imperfection in what they've cultivated.

Bokuto laughs, relieved and redeemed, he reaches to intertwine their hands. His thumb traces constellations against his knuckles, they spend the rest of their night talking.

It's okay, he tells him. They both know what he means.

Is it truly bad sex if it leaves the heart satisfied?


	3. current concerns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-Rio Olympics. college shenanigans. implied drinking/weed. mostly introspective.

The summer of 2016 brings Bokuto Koutarou to the Rio Olympics, his first international stint as a bench warmer, and his premier exposure to humidity, salt, and crippling defeat.

Naturally, when he comes home, nursing a slight disdain for dew and ecru horizons, Akaashi takes him to the ocean.

It shouldn't come as a surprise, but it does nonetheless, how university student Akaashi Keiji thrives amidst his circle of mismatched liberal arts friends. Bokuto hears of them from phone calls and cursory selfies, meeting them is entirely different.

His boyfriend is comfortable in their loud noises and unrestrained introspective speech. They site drunken exploits and poke fun at his poetry, and he fights back with good natured retaliation. Akaashi doesn't hesitate to intertwine their fingers in their presence, keeping them laced and ever-so connected. Actions speak louder than words.

Akaashi tells them that he's an Olympian, curious questions follow, until the topic washes away completely. Bokuto finds himself relieved at how a universe could exist with so little care for sport; he is guilty of this afterwards.

They rent a house by the beach, booze and delight is the nature of the game. There aren't nearly enough beds, a gross assortment of food, and the same playlist resonates throughout their stay. Bokuto thinks, if I were normal, this would be my reality.

They offer him drinks which Akaashi takes to consume for himself, until he insists that he's allowed the luxury during off-season. The taste of beer is bitter, waking at dawn without the need to condition is bitter, being near the sand, without volleyball, is bitter.

What is sweet is his boyfriend's lips, a permanent fixture on his own, no matter the time or reason. Akaashi rocks against him with a force, teeth and tongue, the premonition of sunburn where they touch. He fails to show any remorse when they're caught in the act, a contrast to Bokuto's rosy cheeks. And his friends giggle at their display, at the blatant act of yearning, and allow them to proceed.

By the third day, everyone is too inebriated to hold a conversation. Finals were tough, Akaashi explains. I was completely powerless in my craft, Bokuto doesn't say, but he resigns to join the majority. One bottle down, and then two, sometimes with a crowd, more often when he feels his insides constrict.

The bitterness doesn't get better, but his mouth remains just as sweet.

They set fire next to the ocean, scream philosophies into the void, and the crowd changes partners as the night goes. Akaashi's skin is sticky where he lays claim, but Bokuto relishes the spots where he lingers. They don't accept invitations, too possessive to share. _Too bad_ , they would tease, with no malice in their voice.

But when someone hands them a brown bag, containing a type of happiness Bokuto knows to be off-limits, they each take a piece. The rest of the night is filled with stars. It’s light, almost too easy.

When daylight finds them, Akaashi claims to stumble across an old volleyball in the attic, Bokuto is prideful enough to accept the lie. He tells him that they should play, just the two of them, alcohol still in their system, a reckless abandon. Bokuto lets himself be led to the water.

It's tempting to ask him to set, but Bokuto is a coward. If they fail to connect, if he's unable to rise to the occasion, the devastation would be insurmountable. Wordlessly, Akaashi passes him the ball, a rhythm is built.

Then, it rolls out of bounds, and takes him to the water's edge, Akaashi follows, and then goes forth. The water laps at his ankles, and then his calves, until they curl around his knees. When the ball is safely on shore, Akaashi offers his hand.

It's to steady himself against the rocking waters, that's what he says, I need you. The waves push him to follow, until the water crests at their chests and clothes cling to their bodies. He kisses him, fingers wounded into Akaashi's shirt, another hand at the nape of his neck.

They kiss until he feels weak, the sand shifts beneath his feet, curls around his toes, and buries his ankles. Akaashi holds him around the waist, and by support of the current, Bokuto wraps his legs around his torso.

A wave catches them, lapping against their shoulders, pulling them closer. Akaashi tastes the salt on his neck with his tongue, has his hand around the firm curve of his bum. He can feel Bokuto through his shorts, his hand slides lower.

Bokuto is released into the open sea, Akaashi's fingers are on the tip, and then the length; he arches his back at the sensation. The ocean surrounds them, the impression of water drags around his strokes, urgent but cool beneath the surface.

Bokuto takes him between his teeth, bites the taste of the sea and accepts the salt. An unexplainable relief from the bitter, a needed break from the sweet. In his arms, rising and falling with the rhythms of the current, he lets himself momentarily grieve.

Akaashi presses a kiss to his chin, the sun burns where they touch. And then, the world goes quiet, even as seagulls soar from above, the water dances to their tune. Rio is more than an ocean away.

Beneath the open sky, Akaashi's hand still buried between his thighs, breathless and damp, Bokuto's thoughts get swept up by the tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is entitled current concerns because they're in the ocean and Bokuto is... concerned.


	4. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they break up (but get back together.) bokuto imagines him by his side.

Morning seeps within the sheets, light fluttering through curtains, Bokuto rises when the birds sing. Daybreak is unclouded in Osaka, unlike the diluted glow of Tokyo, where he would have awoken beside him.

Still he imagines, Akaashi's head against the pillow, near enough to press above his crown, hand on top his hip. He's woken up hard again, like every morning since the move- a body's betrayal.

The glow forsakes reality, there is no warmth to be found. Not in his new dorm, a gratuity to the contract he's signed, nor in his freshly minted status of singlehood, a necessity for his new life. Neither of these he had control over.

In theme with his state of helplessness, he concedes responsibility over his thoughts, and pictures him breathing, steady and soft. He reaches for Akaashi, and the man shifts under his touch.

Then, eyes flutter open, a breathy laugh to accompany his greeting. Bokuto's oversized shirt is lopsided against his shoulders, it snags loose where they strayed through the night. Fingers ghost over warm skin, he brushes against the column of his neck.

Their last time hadn't been delicate. Bokuto sinks his teeth into his shoulder, blunt force meant to bruise, Akaashi curls his fingers into his hair and yanks, drawing his head back until his mouth works for air.

Literally taking his breath away, Akaashi, hard against his bosom, latches onto him with a force, Bokuto equally unwilling to let go. He peels his own layers, desperate to bare his chest, and then his heart, to stop the inevitable.

This Akaashi is quiet, luminous over the duvet, like a cloud hovering the futon. Guilt doesn't stop his imagination from shifting him forward, until Akaashi is straddling him, hips in motion until he gasps.

He drags his tongue over his lip, tepid breath a phantom on his chin. He almost catches his hips, digs his fingers too deep against his sides, to navigate him against his member, where the friction feels the sweetest.

Everything in his memories is warm, and wet, and vivid. The way Akaashi would catch his hand to slip under, the way he arches his back against the slow thrust of his palm. This Akaashi, like the real one, does not disclose his desires.

The real Akaashi tells him this is for the best, and then slides into his space to whisper his remorse. Bokuto doesn't let him, instead he grips his collar forward and lets his devastation be felt. It's hot, and tight, and hard.

Akaashi grasps his thighs, head down, as he swallows him for the last time. Bokuto takes in his compressed form, knees on the ground like a sacrifice. Slick lips, a trail on the corner of his mouth, their eyes meet. Akaashi has tasted every inch of him, now he's ready to leave.

This Akaashi lets him worship, hands over his chest, the curve of his spine, the jut of his shoulder blades. Bokuto roams but does not wander lower, unwilling to fully defile him even in his mind.

Instead he touches himself, it's just him and the liquid heat coiling at his gut. It's just him, raw and ravaged, asking a figment if the offering is justified. He staggers as release comes, there is no solace. His breathing is labored, rough, dry, it morphs into a sob.

Cry is what Akaashi does when he whispers, I love you, for the last time. It's the cruelest kindness Bokuto has experienced, a spark of mercy in the inferno they've released. But still, he doesn't argue, because if he says it then it must be true- it's for the best.

Akaashi assures that he'll be the first to watch him reach his dreams. Bokuto doesn't correct him to say that he's the first to break his heart. Instead he presses against his crown for the last time; _take care of yourself._

Bokuto finishes, hips twitching, yellow filtering through the windows. He doesn't know that in three months, Akaashi will come back, a thousand apologies on his lips, a reaffirmed vigor on forever. A commitment, for them both, to combat self-deprecation and loathing.

He doesn't know that, eventually, warmth will find its way to his space again, and stay. Today, Bokuto does not forgive him, not when they've become collateral to a needless yield. Not when he finally, _finally_ , realizes how ridiculous this all is.

Akaashi is wrong, and idiotic, and misguidedly selfless. Bokuto wakes up to tear stains on his cheeks, like every morning since the move, he's devastatingly in love with him.


	5. we (don't) need to talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after-work relief.

He greets him as he enters the door. It takes a moment for Akaashi to acknowledge, to mentally trade the chaos he's escaped for the haven he's arrived to. The editor slips out of his shoes and settles his bag on the corner table, his partner is washing the last of today's dishes. They ate apart today, overtime creating a wedge between their schedules.

Nonetheless, Bokuto comes to him with purpose, long strides until he has him in his arms. Akaashi lets himself deflate at his touch, but the tension does not quite ease.

 _How are you, love_ , Bokuto asks, and it's always an invitation to unravel, to go through the tougher points of his day. More often than not, Akaashi denies.

He tells him it was okay, because work already consumes a dominant part of his being, he refuses to allow this to follow him home too.

But Bokuto pouts, Akaashi's dismissive attitude tells him nothing of the dark circles that have settled underneath his lids, does not explain the scowl that is etched across his features- so, he tries again.

Akaashi receives this differently, much too fatigue to understand the care behind the question. To him, this sounds unreasonable, a tortuous request to recount the travails of the office, instinct tells him to evade. 

_Shower_ , he explains, as he breaks from their embrace and heads for the bathroom, relief calls elsewhere.

Bokuto is upset by the dismissal, he only cares for his partner's wellbeing. By default, there are things he does not quite understand with nine-to-five jobs, but he'll never learn to empathize if he's not given the chance.

So, he waits till the water stops running and Akaashi vacates the shower. He sits on their bed, alert and expectant, his stance is also not perceived properly.

 _Do you need something_ , Akaashi asks, willing the answer to be no. He wants nothing more than to crawl under the covers and surrender himself to slumber. Bokuto looks like he wants to talk, and he is not in the mood.

Sit with me, Bokuto calls, patient and tolerant of his apparent temper. Instantly, his disdain morphs into guilt; it is not his partner's fault that he's had a terrible day.

So, he obeys, rings the last bits of moisture from his hair, and goes to settle next to him. Bokuto immediately reaches for his hand, and opens his mouth, Akaashi already dreads the questions he'll be asking.

_let me take care of you._

Akaashi blinks in confusion. This is far from the confrontation he had been expecting and Bokuto must know because he says again,

_let me make you feel good._

And this time he advances, moves towards his space so that Akaashi has to lean back. He hovers right over him, their eyes meet, an unexplained determination behind his gaze.

He calls this unnecessary, but Bokuto is already trailing kisses against his neck, feather-like around his collarbone. Akaashi closes his eyes and breathes out.

 _I am too tired today, love_ , he whispers, but does not move to stop him, Bokuto trails his tongue around his shoulder, slow and deliberate, it makes his insides squirm.

 _You don't have to do anything,_ Bokuto tells him before biting at the edge of his neck, he soothes the spot with his tongue, _I just want to make you feel good._

Akaashi tries to protest, their relationship is a give and take in equal amounts, but Bokuto silences him by pressing their lips together. Slow and sensual, their tongues meet, Bokuto sucks against his bottom lip.

 _Love you,_ he mumbles, as if this were an ample explanation. Bokuto lets his hands expound, already reaching beneath his sweatpants to deliver promised relief.

He stokes him once, dry and clumsy, the equivalent of god's touch in Akaashi's book. He grips a fistful of bedsheet, sparks yearning underneath his skin.

 _Wait,_ Bokuto pulls away, just to lick his palm thoroughly, before bringing it back under. _Gotta do this right_ , he proclaims. Akaashi feels like combusting on the spot.

His hips hitch up on reflex when Bokuto's palm surrounds him. He grips the sheets tighter whenever Bokuto shifts his hold or squeezes a bit more, Akaashi practically moans into his shoulder.

Bokuto keeps his hand moving as he reaches to kiss the underside of Akaashi's jaw. It's beginning to get hot and hard, the tip already starting to leak. _Baby,_ he sighs, _faster please._

Bokuto obliges, his fist slipping through faster strokes, as precum eases the slide and fills their room with sticky sounds. Akaashi is buried in the crook of his shoulder, huffing short breaths as his hips continue to jump to his touch.

Bokuto keeps his eyes on him, earnest and eager, taking in the sight of his boyfriend coming undone. Akaashi squeezes his eyes shut and hopes that they don't convey the extent of his vulnerability.

Bokuto calls to him, presses kisses against his collar, and unleashes compliments. Akaashi's gaze is unfocused, eyelids fluttering, wild. Heat throbs in his stomach, he's lost control over his muscles, he pushes and grinds against Bokuto's touch.

He feels a press against his forehead, Bokuto is incredible close, when their gazes meet, he's unable to look away. Come for me, he doesn't say with words.

Akaashi gasps and throws his head against the pillow, liquid heat coming from the inside. Bokuto feels him twitch in his hand, spilling between his fingers as Akaashi moans and curls forward to burry himself against his bosom.

Akaashi calls his name, dazed and unhinged, and something incredibly fond settles in his chest. Their mouths meet again with the force of leftover desire, and the next moments need no words.

Later, after Bokuto has pampered him with a damp towel to clean the soiled spot on his torso, Akaashi will lie in bed waiting for his return. There's a lump in his throat, it feels full of something indecipherable.

Bokuto takes a while so he's already tucked himself underneath the sheets but falling asleep while feeling like this seems wrong. Instead, he leans across Bokuto's pillow and breathes in his scent. Promised comfort brings the opposite, it solidifies the unrest within him.

He thinks of Bokuto, so candid in his quest to care for him. The kindness in every caress, deliberate in the way he knows Akaashi's body to work. He feels seen, perceived under his touch. A testament to communication transcending beyond words.

When his partner returns, shirtless to accompany his current state, Akaashi unfolds their blanket as a silent request to settle in; Bokuto obliges.

He lets himself be spooned, feels the intention in how Bokuto twists to match his rigid frame. It feels strange, how in one moment, all complexities have escaped his body, just to have them return instantaneously; he wonders if Bokuto senses this too.

 _I love you_ , Bokuto says in lieu of goodnight, and Akaashi nods and presses a kiss against his arm. The lump in his throat gets bigger.

In the few minutes Akaashi tries to sleep, he listens to Bokuto's breathing. One, two, three, inhale; one, two, three, exhale- like clockwork. But this rhythm doesn't even out, he's awake, and waiting.

The knowledge finally causes the lump to move upwards, an ascend of hard feelings, as it reaches beneath his eyelids and finally escapes. He chokes, a sob on his lips, arms immediately tighten their hold.

 _I've had a terrible day,_ he finally admits, raw and vulnerable; disgrace finally in the open. As the body cannot deny itself pleasure, the heart is unable to revoke pain.

But what is love, if not unadulterated compassion and patience, mercy in the midst of personal turmoil. His lover soothes his tears, acts as a safe space to unravel.

Bokuto is here, the kindest soul Akaashi has met, much gentler than he could ever be towards himself. He whispers, a beckon amidst his storm.

_let's talk about it._


	6. the good part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-402 olympics hookup, for what it's worth.
> 
> For #NSFWbokuakaweek2020 | day 5: toys | find them [twitter](https://twitter.com/nsfwbokuakaweek)

The Olympics is known for two things.

The first, being a gathering of the world's top sportsmen in honor of nationalism and athletic combat. And the second, the notorious hookup culture said sportsmen indulge in, to obtain a different type of acclaim. Of the two, only one of which, Bokuto has participated in.

That is until, Iwaizumi Hajime (27) Athletic Trainer, unknowingly did the greatest solid of all time by sneaking in, Akaashi Keiji (26) Head Editor for hit manga, Meteo Attack, into the Olympic village.

Akaashi dons an official National Team staff shirt, an apparent spare of trainer's, and bypasses the guards when they move as a crowd. It's comically big on his suppler frame, particularly in the arms and the stretch of the chest; nonetheless, he is here.

Here to witness the grand acclamation of years of training, breaking, and burning. Here to see the final toss of the ball, the connect, and the aftermath. The acceptance of tears and the realization of victory, an amalgamation of multitudes.

Amidst the roaring crowds and the rambunctious backdrops, Bokuto has found his prize. In the split second after he's off the podium, he catches him in his arms.

Akaashi laughs, unbridled joy in his features, as they swing around in reckless abandon. All at once, Bokuto feels triumphant, ecstatic, and much more than superlatives could ever describe.

He settles him down, moves to remove the silver from around his neck. He had been aiming for gold, they all were, but the cards had fallen slightly in another's favor. Nevertheless, he presents the manifestation of his toils to his greatest love.

Akaashi allows him to adorn silver around his collar, then reaches for his pocket to present him with gold. Bokuto only has affirmatives on his tongue.

Which leads them to the Athletes Village, home to all teams throughout the event's duration. Months ago, Japan made press upon the announcement of their now infamous cardboard beds, made of recyclable material and said to be sturdier than wood.

Naturally, athletes have been eager to test the limits of its strength, for the sake of innovation and, ahem, durability. They have the honor today, sexiling Bokuto's roommate, and cheekily lacking subtlety with the rest of the national team.

They tell him that he's wrong, it does not count as a hookup if you've been devoted to your partner for years, but they begrudgingly acknowledge the charm in their enthusiasm. Bokuto could care less, to each their own victory.

He boastfully wishes them luck on their midnight escapades, while pulling his now-fiancé towards him in a very public display of affection; the gagging noises they make are well justified.

So now, Akaashi is here, perched on his lap, hands entangled around his streaks. The springs of the mattress creak ever slightly, the cardboard bed sturdy in its shape. His mouth is soft against his, a lick below his lip, a tug at his base.

Bokuto supports him, hands palming his behind to keep him positioned a bit taller, legs on both sides. Akaashi lifts his hips up and down, an insistent rock against his lap, he adores hearing his fiancé’s breath hitch at the contact.

Bokuto's teeth is just underneath his collarbone, the medal cold against his bare skin. The athlete had insisted that he be the one to wear it, a possessive pride at seeing his greatest passions take a single form.

They weren't ones to use paraphernalia often in the bedroom, but victory sex would be incomplete without its manifestation. Akaashi wears this with pride, the medal jumps and clanks as he pushes his hips forward to thrust upwards.

He has his arms looped around the athlete's shoulders, Bokuto tips his head back and moans when he shifts his weight. His eyelids flutter, cheeks a flustered red, Akaashi wonders how his mere mortal heart could handle the depths of loving somebody to this gravity.

It's a testament to their trust, how Bokuto lets him lead. This is his victory sex, he should be directing the show, instead he allows Akaashi to touch him between the legs, and shudders, almost melts.

He's absolutely breathtaking, muscles taunt with all strength and form that have deemed him a monster on court. Chest heaving, picking up with Akaashi's hold, eyes completely closed. His opponents will never know, Bokuto likes to be loved gently.

He touches him with his whole body, they're so wet in between, it eases the glide. Bokuto's fingers are against his scalp, entangling against his crown until it finds grip, he tugs at the strands insistently. It makes him groan, Akaashi nips at his jaw.

Bokuto grips him with both hands, easing him up and down, fingers on the edge of his hole, almost waiting.

Throughout the course of their relationship, single beds have always been a staple. Whether it be sports dormitories, or tiny apartments, they rarely had the luxury of space for their love making.

This did not deter them; nights together were already so sparse. In their youth, they'd lay, one sprawled over the other, or at times, an arm tucked to keep in place. They became accustomed to navigating the smallest spaces, being incredibly close was as intimate as the deed itself.

It left little room for experimenting, a fact that would often earn them more than a few gibes when voiced out loud, but both preferred to keep their bedroom manner private.

There was never a night wherein they weren't fully touching, like the gods could rip them apart at any given time. Even after they had purchased a full-sized bed to share, subconscious yearning would lead them towards the other; some habits just stuck.

So Akaashi knows that he enjoys this, having them fold into each other, eye-to-eye. Bokuto soothes his hands around his neck, around the outline where the medal lays, downwards to his abdomen and back up. Delicate, almost oblivious to how heated Akaashi's skin has become.

Goosebumps cover him where Bokuto lays a kiss, featherweight on his neck, completely overturning the pace of their deed. Akaashi can hear the insistent bumps from the floor above, and the room beside, of those who are more successful in testing the dexterity of cardboard.

But Bokuto is taking the time to hold him, to remember the glimmer of silver around his neck and the promise they had just shared with the world. Bokuto will remember him, hair caught in a flustered wave, looking at him with as much promise and insurmountable happiness as his heart could offer.

His hand travels the canals of his spine, while the other holds his jaw to look at him directly. Bokuto's gaze shows soft affection, they're pressed against each other, the closest they can possibly be, now it's time to simply be still.

Akaashi privately finds it charming how they've once again found themselves in a too-small bed, with no resemblance of ambiance and an underlying scent of sweat. For Bokuto's fated Olympics-level hookup, this will, objectively, be a boring story to tell.

But they stay like this, hands roaming, wetness in between slowly becoming brittle where they stay pressed. Bokuto touches him, quiet, contemplative, he traces the kanji of his name over his heart.

And like a beckon, he lights up, eyes sparking at the realization, or thought, or whatever brilliant revelation he could possibly make in this dimply lit room. Akaashi waits for him, patient, captivated.

_we're getting married_ , he whispers, in full awe, with an earnest wonder that momentarily makes him forget that he had been the one to propose (too).

And Akaashi laughs, at how he had taken his time to comprehend the magnitude of their commitment, at how they're in a building filled with hormone-induced superhumans, but they'll be the only ones to take each other home after tonight.

He laughs, the medal jiggles at the vibration, he presses his fingers against his fiancé’s cheek fondly.

_yes, we are._


	7. stormflow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for #NSFWBokuakaWeek on [twitter](https://twitter.com/nsfwbokuakaweek)
> 
> Day 3 | Walls + "It's not impossible, just hard"
> 
> dedicated to [@bokkuatsu](https://twitter.com/bokkuatsu) on twitter ([protagonists](https://archiveofourown.org/users/protagonists/pseuds/protagonists) on ao3) for being one of my fave people in the bird app and an actual blessing this 2020. even if she did expose my b*d s*x agenda to the masses.

He has the water on cold, pretends not to mind, lets the moisture wash away the struggles of today's training, the remnants of physical exhaustion. He leaves the downpour running until his skin is numb, an angry shade of red, a quiet sign of defeat.

A pair of strong arms find his torso, lips brushing against the sensitive spot on the side of his neck. A set of discarded clothes has joined his, Akaashi is home, and with him.

Naturally, he braces against his naked body, stretching backwards in submission. Akaashi holds him against the shower walls, thumbs through the curve of his hipbones; he presses hard and tucks his nose against Bokuto's spine.

A whimper greets him, Bokuto's signature spikes are matted down from the water, cradled against his forehead, just above his eyes. He looks vulnerable, like his primary line of defense has washed over.

But still, he tips his head back to press their mouths together. Hungry kisses that speak of long days of separation, mismatched schedules, an eternity within their time apart. Akaashi understands, it's neither of their faults; but when the heart craves and remains unsatiated, the emotional fallout is inevitable.

So, he goes lower, grabs him by the hips to lift Bokuto ever slightly, presses him firmer against the wall and grinds deeper. His other hand curls over his ribs, thumbs onto of the round of his nipple, an insistent press on the middle, leading into a tight squeeze.

Bokuto's moan is instantaneous, he bares his teeth and hurries to meet Akaashi's neck, the water slides in between the gaps. He moves to tastes him, tongue sliding to catch every droplet, as Akaashi grinds faster, rolls their hips together in a cacophony of motion.

Akaashi keeps his feet planted firmly; let not the current interfere with his movements. He presses himself against Bokuto's entrance, uses his wrists to lift him up higher, so that it burns where they meet. The water contributes to the noise- slick, wet, unapologetically loud.

Bokuto's hand entangles within his locks, pulls to keep steady, pulls because he's finally so close. His other palm is directly on his bum, he presses them together, so insistent to be taken wholly. The absolute trust nearly makes Akaashi come on the spot.

But Bokuto is bruised, sore from training and the imperceptible demands from being volleyball's ace. Words are dispensable, Akaashi knows when his partner needs the proximity- needs to feel something other than the tingle of his palms and the mental fortitude to keep task focus.

Akaashi braces him on slick walls, rocks at an insistent speed that nearly knocks the air right out of Bokuto's lungs. He's gasping, spine arched in an angle so painfully uncovered, Akaashi lets him ride the waves of his orgasm, gives him the luxury of a complete unravel.

It's messy, Bokuto's knees unbuckle midway and Akaashi nearly slips in his haste to catch him. Mouth-to-mouth they sigh into each other, water washes what leaks in between, but the rest Bokuto takes readily.

"Welcome home, love," he mumbles, as he feels Akaashi release him. It's wrong because he is the one, in fact, who has just come home from a series of away games- results tragically leaning towards the unfavorable; but Akaashi need not to correct him, it isn't home until both are together.

"I am home," he whispers, and Bokuto can finally turn to meet his eyes, see what computer screens and nightly calls have failed to show him. _Missing you doesn't get easier_ , he wants to say, but that would invite a different type of outpour, one not originating from the showerhead that's turned cold.

"Is it selfish that I want you all the time?" Bokuto's vulnerabilities speak, and if this tugs onto Akaashi's heart strings, he does not bestow him with the sight.

"You have me today," he reassures, "and tomorrow, and all the time after then. It's only hard now." Tomorrow, there will be a game in Tokyo's stadium, and then another, a hundred miles away. Right after, a training camp oversees, and then a match, time together has never been so hard.

"It feels impossible," Bokuto admits, "I don't want to be ungrateful but Ji-" he shudders, "I miss you." And Akaashi swallows, pretends that the tears come from the showers and not at the fact that is has been nearly impossible.

Because if it really is impossible, where would that leave them.

"I am always with you," he mumbles against his shoulder, Bokuto has brought their bodies together and he loses himself in dampen curls. "I am so proud of you; you're doing your best out there. It'll be okay."

He doesn't ask if he truly believes what he says, because neither can answer that. But right now, having Akaashi say it without prompt, does a bit to reassure the loneliness in Bokuto's heart. Maybe love is just about being lonely together.

Akaashi lets him go, unleashes lavender on his palms and holds a sea sponge. "Let me wash you," he offers, building suds where their skin meets. In the most intimate act of service, Akaashi touches every part of him to make him new again. Bokuto does not know how a version of himself could exist without him.

"No need to worry right now," he has soap in his hair, fingers splayed across his scalp; Bokuto closes his eyes. "I am here."

It's bravery, to keep his needs quiet, to be courageous for the future they're so desperately trying to build. It's bravery that keeps his, _I miss yous_ sparse and his messages long and uplifting. Akaashi has learnt to be strong, Bokuto wishes he could make it easier for them.

Akaashi tiptoes to clean the back of his ears, rubs harder at the junctions of his elbows, ensures that every nook and cranny of Bokuto has been rinsed. It's moments like this where Bokuto is completely humbled by the extent of his love, to have every fiber of his being be cared for so extensively.

What an honor it is, he thinks, to have someone so wonderful to come home to.

Bokuto's fingers still remember the curves of his spine, he takes the sponge away to return the favor, focuses on making Akaashi clean too. The water is ice-cold now, their skin has wrinkled and built paths that don't intertwine nearly enough, but warmth is found where they do.

The real world is a stormflow and they remain just a streak of watercolor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will mark this as complete for now, but may add chapters come the holidays. thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be constantly updated with more mature content coming from my series, think of this as the spaces in between. Chapters can be read separately, relationship context remains the same. Check beginning notes of every chapter for tags.
> 
> You can talk to me at [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsfluffyham)


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